


Lime Green

by RoseinMyHand



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Burning Heart - May_Shepard
Genre: Fix-It, Internalized Homophobia, John Watson Has Self Insight, John is Certainly Gay and Absolutely Knows it, Letting Go of Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseinMyHand/pseuds/RoseinMyHand
Summary: He thought he’d felt pity; it had been envy.





	Lime Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/gifts), [IamJohnLocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Burning Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144062) by [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard). 



> This is set in the universe of _The Burning Heart_ by May_Shepard, after John and Mark Morstan have moved in together but before Sherlock returns. Adoring kisses to [ JL4L ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/profile)for the encouragement and beta.
> 
> May_Shepard is telling a story very dear to me, about a John Watson who struggles to understand himself, and in not giving up, becomes the person he needs himself to be.
> 
> In this fic, some of the ideas John expresses, about his gayness, about masculinity, about his identity are not the ideas that I personally hold. They **are** issues some of us, especially of those of us close to John's age, struggle with during the process of understanding ourselves. John is still working through what being gay means for him and experiencing how much clarity and happiness his greater self-understanding brings into his life.

 

 

> I noticed nothing. I noticed  
>  I was trembling.  
>  —Louise Glück, _The Burning Heart_

   


Before the flash of lime green, it had been an ordinary day, the kind of ordinary day that John had thought impossible, ever again. Waking was gradual. John spent the morning unhurried—making coffee, flicking through the news on his phone, and putting on the wash. Mark often spent mornings off at the gym, and so the space of the flat enveloped him, quiet and cheerful. Until the flash of lime green.

John had folded clothes. John had walked to the bedroom. John had hummed. John had not thought of Sherlock, nor thought about not thinking about Sherlock, for at least two hours. Then, opening a drawer, John caught a glimpse of a pair of Mark’s pants, shorter and tighter than he’d wear to the surgery. Meant to flatter and emphasize. Lime green.

“Did you like the little touch with the underwear?” Moriarty’s voice cooed maliciously in his mind. He’d been Jim, that day in the lab, preening and strutting. Lean, doe-eyed, John could admit to thinking, now. Prettily clumsy, giving Sherlock his number, poor subterfuge covering up the bigger game. He remembered feeling uncomfortable, angry beyond what the situation warranted. Watching Jim fumble and knock things over in the lab, John had only allowed himself to think about how embarrassed Jim must feel or how disappointed Molly (poor Molly!) must be, again. He’d been upset with Sherlock later, purportedly over Sherlock’s insensitivity to Molly.

Now with the distance of years and self-knowledge, John saw that his own exasperation was really just jealousy. He’d always felt a mix of anger and wistfulness, whenever he met gay men. Men like Jim, who couldn’t help it, who wouldn’t fool anyone, John had thought, unkindly. He’d told himself that it must be humiliating, to have other people putting labels on you. He’d not let himself think about the freedom, the sense of being seen and understood. He thought he’d felt pity; it had been envy.

John sighed, unrolling Mark’s underwear, wondering if it was the same brand as Moriarty’s that day, that brand so specifically chosen and displayed to signal gayness.

He’d been jealous of “Jim from the hospital”, jealous of his ability to throw himself at Sherlock. Jealous of Jim, and men like Jim; their ease with themselves. Sublimating that jealousy into a sense of superiority. He’d panicked at the thought of Sherlock responding to the overtures. When Sherlock had acted disgusted, had ignored Jim entirely, John had been relieved. When Jim had been revealed as Moriarty, he’d known that Sherlock would find that much more fascinating. And so it was—and that was its own disappointment. John Watson was an ordinary man like Jim and not an extraordinary one like Moriarty, after all.

In blacker moments, after the ruse of Jim had been revealed, John had even wondered if “Jim” had been meant as a parody of John himself. Of John’s fascination with Sherlock, of his clumsy attempts at hiding it.

John thought of Sherlock, in the lab that day. He could still remember Sherlock’s voice, heard it often in his mind, his dreams. Sherlock’s expressive face, his quick hands, the muscles and tendons so articulated as they moved; a beautiful anatomical study come to life. Sherlock's fringe, over his forehead, ended right at his eyebrows. His eyebrows, masculine and delicate. Fine, yet wider than his thumb; John had often thought about smoothing his thumb over them, just to feel the strength of the structures underneath. 

Now, John thought of gayness in terms of honesty, of courage. People had called him brave for serving in a warzone. For John, letting the world know him as a gay man had required more courage. And yet now it was easy; becoming clear about who he was had stripped away so many of the fears and anxieties he had carried.

Mark’s voice, close behind him, “Having a pleasant day dream, hmm?”

John had heard him come in, had heard him approach, but chose to remain as he was. Mark’s arms slipped around him, one arm at his waist and the other running upwards, the hand grasping John’s shoulder.

“Like to see them on?” Mark’s voice was low, his scruff a pleasant scratch against John’s neck. Mark was compact and strong; the muscles in his arms and thighs, thick and powerful. John loved the way it felt. Aspects that he had been anxious about had become the things he reveled in the most. Mark’s strength, Mark’s desire, Mark’s masculinity didn’t erase his own, but in some way accentuated it.

John thought again of Sherlock’s indifference to touch, of John’s own inability to touch Sherlock with gentleness, except under the pretext of medical care or as if by accident. He’d wanted to touch Sherlock, had wanted to so much that he often couldn’t when it would have been expected. He couldn’t touch Sherlock casually, because it would have never have been casual for John. That day in the lab—was it the same day? He thought it must be—he’d nearly shaken Sherlock, so terrified and so desperate to put his hands on him.

He’d been afraid it’d be like that with Mark, too; that he couldn’t be gentle with him, afraid he’d hurt him with the violence of his desire. Mark had laughed him out of it, had not been shy with direction, until _softer, harder, more, less,_  had become a game between them and then a language John himself could speak. John trusted himself now, knew he could trust himself to touch with gentleness or force, as the situation required. He trusted himself to know which was which.


End file.
